


Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Peace and Quiet [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets an old friend of John's and realises that there was more to the doctor's time in Afghanistan than just war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a nebulous post-Reichenbach, post-return era when John and Sherlock are best friends again and are back fighting crime like the adorable superfriends they are. Will have two and possibly more fluffy little one-shots centering around John and Mary's relationship and Sherlock's reaction thereto.

It wasn't a murder, for once, and John was quietly relieved about that. He found it astonishing that so many people could kill each other and it could go unreported, unacknowledged. He knew from experience that, in a war zone, where death was almost commonplace, every death was acknowledged, mourned and respected.

Not so here, he noted, folding his arms and watching as Sherlock nosed around the shattered display cases and spilled jewels of obscene value. The muted light in the room dulled the sparkle of diamonds and rubies, but John still found it amusing that his friend was so untroubled by the abundance of wealth at his feet.

Still, even that amusement couldn't take away from the fact that John was bloody exhausted. He'd worked double shifts at the clinic as a favour to the heavily-pregnant Sarah, and he was paying the price now.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted imperiously, stomping to a halt with his hands on his hips. "Anderson missed it.  _Again."_

* * *

The jewel heist sorted, John found himself wandering along beside Sherlock as they went for something to eat. It was warm and bright and not-quite autumnal just yet, the sort of evening John most liked. It was the sort of evening that meant he could just go for a nice, quiet walk in the park (sans Sherlock, because fond though he was of the man, too much Sherlock was most definitely a bad thing), or sit in the sitting room with the windows open and just drink tea.

He thought he heard someone call his name, but paid no heed - John was a common enough name, after all, and there were plenty of Johns in London.

"Captain Watson! Doc!"

He turned then, surprised to realise he knew the voice.

"Mary?"

* * *

Sherlock frowned. He didn't like the idea of someone randomly calling John in the street. He especially didn't like it at the moment, when Moriarty was still at large and-

The woman who'd called John was no taller than the doctor himself, lean and strong in her build. Army too, then, but not a doctor - the tense line of her shoulders and the watchful flick of her dark eyes spoke of combat, as did the callouses on her left hand - her index finger in particular, he noted as she came closer, which implied a lot of gunwork.

Interesting. A sniper, then, or a sharpshooter at least.

She dropped her crutch to throw her arms around John, both of them laughing. Her hair - thick, untidy, dark and almost curly - spilled over John's shoulder, and she wound her fingers into his hair as if to hold him closer. They were laughing, Sherlock realised, although he didn't really understand why.

* * *

"How are you? When did you get home? How's your leg?"

Mary laughed at his flurry of questions, pulling away but keeping her arm around his neck.

"I'm fine, I got home about two months ago, and as for my leg..."

She reached down and hitched up the right leg of her jeans, revealing first her stripey sock and then the glossy titanium of a prosthesis.

"It's been incinerated," she said cheerfully, shaking her trouser leg back down and biting her lip. "How's the shoulder, hero?"

John could feel a blush rising in his cheeks.

"It's fine - the cold irritates it, and I think I've arthritis in it, but it's fine."

Mary leaned down and picked up her crutch, disentangling herself from his arms.

"Good - I heard you're working as a GP again?"

He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"A friend of mine got me a few hours not long after I came back and I sort of stuck around. What about you?"

"Living off the family riches at the moment," she said easily, not quite laughing again. "Mum flipped when she saw what was once my leg. Nothing left below the knee - scared her half to death."

Sherlock chose that moment to introduce himself.

"John, we're late."

John rolled his eyes.

"Mary, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is a friend of mine, Captain Mary Morstan."

"Friend," Mary laughed, shoving his affectionately in his good shoulder. "John saved my life in Afghanistan - he was shot trying to stop me from bleeding to death after I stood on a landmine to avoid a sniper's bullet. I owe him everything."

John felt himself blush again.

"I only did what anyone would have done-"

"Oh yes, especially when their commanding officer told them to leave me for dead," she pointed out, frowning when her phone rang in her pocket. "Damn it, I have to go- look, John, give me your mobile number and we'll meet up this week, alright? I've missed your passive-aggressive bitchiness," she teased, handing her phone to him expectantly. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? And food's on me - although nothing even vaguely resembling Afghan cuisine."

He couldn't help but smile as he typed his number into her phone and automatically saved it under "Dr. John H. Watson."

Mary took her phone back, kissed his cheek and limped off, leaning as heavily on her crutch as he once had on his.

* * *

Sherlock huffed, frowning. He was missing some crucial piece of the story here, he was sure of it.

"You were shot saving her?"

John looked up, jumping slightly as if startled.

"Yes, I was. We served together. She was the troop sharp-shooter."

So he'd been right on that count.

"She's quite contrary to the impression I had of your troop."

John's smile spoke volumes, and filled in the gap in Sherlock's knowledge.  _Ah, he thought. _Lovers.__

"She's just Mary," he said, smiling wider and walking off ahead of Sherlock. "And I thought you said we were late?"


End file.
